Renegade (2013) (20 page)

Using a laser pointer, Benton indicated the distance between Kandahar and the Durand Line. “He’s got a lot of ground to cover. Tomorrow morning we’re going to begin sending teams into the mountains to start running a grid. We’re going to pick up Yaqub’s trail, and when we do, we’ll close his operation down. Permanently.”

WITH A LONG STRIDE
and rolling muscles made strong from years of walking through the mountains, Yaqub reached the top of the range and peered down into the stone valley where snow lay in drifts. This high up, the land stayed gripped by winter. Permafrost gleamed in the early morning sunlight, and Yaqub’s breath spilled out of him in gray patches of fog.

After leaving Kandahar, they had abandoned the SUVs when they could no longer hold the trail that wound up into the mountains. Then they’d covered them with tarps and snow and dirt so they couldn’t be easily tracked by the drones Yaqub was certain the Westerners had launched. He had prepared for that, though, arranging for other outbreaks of violence that would occupy the attentions of his enemy.

That morning, at first light, Yaqub had taken out his prayer rug and given thanks that his mission had borne the fruit that it had, and he asked that he be kept strong enough to pursue his goals. Finished, once more filled with the certainty that he was upon the chosen path, he’d rolled his prayer rug and gotten his caravan into motion.

Only an hour into their journey on foot, they’d been met by warriors with donkeys. The pack animals carried food and ammunition. The only donkey in Yaqub’s party carried Jonathan Sebastian. The
journalist clung to the surly little beast like a man holding on to a life raft in a rugged sea.

When Sebastian had first seen the donkey and been told he would be riding, he’d been thankful. The man was used to the soft life, to sitting in furnished quarters and pontificating on whatever story or angle he’d been given. His days of being in the field were long behind him. The hour or so of walking that he’d had to endure since leaving the vehicles had sapped much of his strength and endurance.

Now, given the grimace on his face, Yaqub was willing to wager that Sebastian was torn between believing the donkey was a blessing or an even worse torment than walking through the frozen mountains. The journalist was also not a rider. He sat uncomfortably on the donkey and shifted in an effort to find better seating.

“Is that where we’re going?” Sebastian pointed down into the valley, where small mountain homes occupied the relatively flat lands. All of the homes butted up against the mountains.

Yaqub shifted the AK-47 on his shoulder and peered at the journalist. “Yes.”

“What’s down there?”

“The reason we have come.”

Sebastian grimaced and shifted again, then started to dismount.

Yaqub held up a hand, freezing the man in place. “Stay on the animal. If you get off now, you will not have the strength to get back on.”

Looking pained, Sebastian adjusted himself. Bored, the donkey flicked its ears. “I can’t guarantee that I can ride much longer. I’m too old for this.”

“If you fall off, we’ll put you back on and tie you in place. You will make this journey one way or another.”

Sebastian cursed.

Looking forward, Yaqub spied Wali, then waved, and they moved forward once more, heading down into the valley. Heaviness stirred
in Yaqub’s heart because he knew it would be the last time he would make the trip.

Men and young boys tended the goats sheltered inside lean-tos built into the foothills of the surrounding mountains. Others carried rocks to build the recent fortifications that Yaqub had insisted on. For years the valley had hidden those who lived within its walls, but those days were soon to be over. The women and female children had already been evacuated from the site.

As Yaqub and the rest of the caravan came down out of the mountains, the men and boys abandoned their chores and picked up the rifles they’d been issued. All of the weapons were modern. For every old single-shot rifle, there was now an AK-47 or a Dragunov sniper rifle. But trust was a hard thing among the mountain warriors, and they didn’t easily abandon the old ways. Even though they were grateful for the new weapons, the men still hadn’t discarded the rifles they’d carried for so long and knew how to make ammunition for.

Wali loped ahead of the caravan and shouted to the men as they took up arms and settled into position behind the rock walls. Even after Wali reassured them, the men didn’t put away their weapons. They had hidden their secret as carefully as had the surrounding mountains.

Sahebi, one of the men who had trained Yaqub from the time he was a boy, stood at the forefront of the group. In his sixties, the old man was wiry and quick. His long beard was more gray than black these days, and he looked as weathered as the mountains.

“Zalmai, it is good to see you.”

Stepping forward, Yaqub allowed himself to be briefly swallowed in Sahebi’s strong embrace. “It is good to see you too.”

Sahebi released him and stared at the caravan. His iron-hard face was implacable. “You have brought a visitor.”

“Yes.”

A somber look lent an edge to Sahebi’s features. “This is the man you sought in Kandahar?”

“Yes.”

“Then God has blessed you with success.”

“I have so been blessed.”

Sahebi nodded, but he didn’t look pleased. Both of them knew what that success meant—and the loss that both of them were about to experience. “Your father will be proud.”

“Perhaps, but he will know—as I do—that this is the will of God. I am merely an instrument. Soon we will drench our blades in the blood of the unbelievers.”

“Please. Go in and make yourself comfortable.” Sahebi waved to one of the stone homes. “Get out of this cursed chill and warm yourself. We will take care of your animals and the goods you have brought.”

The caravan hadn’t been organized just to transport Yaqub and his group to the valley. It also carried fresh water, wood, food, and clothing that the people who lived there could use. Living in the mountains was harsh and demanding.

“Thank you.” Yaqub headed for Sahebi’s home.

Like all the other houses around it, Sahebi’s resembled an organized pile of stones stacked against the surrounding mountain walls. The homes were much bigger on the inside than they appeared on the outside because their builders had widened and shaped the natural caves inside the mountains.

At the front of the home, Yaqub pulled aside the heavy tarp that blocked the freezing wind and stepped gratefully out of the unforgiving perpetual winter weather and into the warmth of the
home. The previous night, he and his men had swaddled themselves in sleeping bags and thick layers of clothing to stave off the chill they’d ascended into. Though he’d grown used to hardships over the last few years, Yaqub still hated the cold.

On the other side of the tarp door, the large room held a fireplace hacked into the wall. A chimney carved through the stone led the smoke away from the room while leaving the heat behind.

Yaqub swung his AK-47 around and grasped the weapon’s pistol grip in his right hand while he waited for his eyes to acclimate to the dimness.

Firewood, always a precious commodity this high in the mountains, sat stacked neatly beside the fireplace. Burning logs crackled and spat embers. A heavy pot hung from an iron bar near the flames, just close enough to keep the contents warm. The familiar robust scent of
shorwa e ghosht
, beef and bean soup, tantalized Yaqub’s nose. His stomach growled in response.

A young boy sat near the fireplace and tended the fire and the soup. He gazed up at Yaqub with dark-brown eyes. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Perhaps in a while.” Yaqub divested himself of his thick outer coat, throwing it into a pile near the door. “Is he resting?”

“Yes.”

Yaqub stepped through the doorway on the left and into another room. He paused there at the entrance to study the room’s lone occupant. Despite the smell of the soup and woodsmoke that permeated the dwelling, the strong odor of death also hung over the other room. In his heart, Yaqub believed no other man could have clung so fiercely to life. That kind of strength demanded a special conviction and desire for revenge.

On the thick pile of sleeping bags and bedding in the center of the room was a frail, incomplete stick of a man. Despite the number
of blankets, the way they clung to the sleeping figure revealed the absence of the man’s arm and leg on his right side. His left arm lay over the top of the blankets, a gnarled, scarred, and bony testament to the life of violence its owner had led.

Years and infirmity had turned the old man’s beard and hair white as snow and paled his features. His face had withered away to an edged, hawklike profile. Burn scarring tracked his right cheek and temple, so thick that the beard and hair no longer grew in those areas, and his ear was a burned and twisted thing that no longer worked. A black patch covered his right eye, and fluid wept continuously from the socket.

The left eye opened; then the hawklike face turned toward the door. Despite the man’s weakness, his gaze was fierce and unforgiving. “Zalmai?” The voice was a hollowed-out croak that sounded as if the man still carried with him the smoke from the fire that had burned him so badly.

“Yes, Father.”

A smile curved Sabah’s scarred face, and he waved to Yaqub weakly. “Come, my son. I have been awaiting news of your efforts in Kandahar.”

Retreating long enough to pick up a tallow candle from a box near the fireplace, Yaqub lit the wick and set the candle inside a lantern. He crossed the uneven stone floor to his father’s side. The people who lived in the valley had chopped stone from within the caves and left tracks across the floor. Most of the tool marks had been worn smooth over the passage of time. The yellow light revealed the uneven surfaces, painting them in shadows.

Kneeling beside his father’s bed, Yaqub set the lantern to one side and took the emaciated claw the old man held up to him. The candle flame played over Sabah’s ravaged face. Years of frailty and sickness had eroded the flesh of the old man’s hand, leaving only skin over tendon and bone, but Sabah maintained a supernatural strength.

“It is good to see you, my son.”

“It is good to see you too, Father.” Every time Yaqub had left the mountain village since his father’s tragic wounding, he’d expected that to be the last time he would see the man. On each occasion, he felt convinced that he would return only to find a grave that marked his father’s passing.

“Your mission?”

“God has blessed me.”

A ghost of the old smile, pulled out of shape by the burn scarring, twisted the man’s lips. Seeing the expression only served to remind Yaqub of the strength his father had at one time commanded, and the disparity between then and now shoved through his heart like a hot knife.

“I told you that God would see you through this. We will crush our enemies.” Tears of infection tracked down the side of Sabah’s face. Other infection had dried there, leaving crusted paths behind.

“Yes, Father.” Yaqub laid his AK-47 to one side, then picked up the cloth on a corner of the bedding. He wet the cloth in a small bowl of water and gently cleansed his father’s face.

Sabah relaxed under Yaqub’s ministrations. The old man kept his hand on Yaqub’s wrist, and Yaqub tried not to notice how cold and thin the fingers were. He took back the cloth and rinsed it in the bowl.

“Thank you for this last chance to enact vengeance upon our enemies, Zalmai.”

“You are welcome, Father.”

“A man should not have to go to his grave without striking back at those who killed him.”

“I know.” Yaqub put the cloth aside. “Let me get you a bowl of soup.”

Sabah shook his head. “I am not hungry.”

“You must eat to keep up your strength.”

“My faith sustains me, my son.” Sabah fixed his remaining eye on Yaqub, and a hint of the old sparkle showed there despite the jaundiced color. “God will keep me alive till I can do my part.”

Yaqub silently hoped that was so.

“The American journalist is here?”

“Yes.”

“Then help me get dressed so that I may see him. We have much to do to prepare, and our enemies must be nipping at your heels like hounds.”

“Of course.” Gently, Yaqub pulled back the bedding and covers to reveal his father’s crooked and wasted body.

Since the attack, Sabah had never been the same. The loss of his arm and leg were only the most apparent of the injuries that the old man had suffered. Burn scarring covered a lot of his body, especially his other leg, charring into the musculature to leave the limb withered and twisted, unable to support his weight. His breath came hoarse and ragged, and he often got lung infections that left him wheezing for days until antibiotics fought the fluid from his airways.

Yaqub did not know how many times his father had nearly died over the past years. The doctors whom he had brought to see Sabah always left amazed at the old man’s resolve and seemingly bottomless reservoirs of recovery.

Sometimes, during his weaker moments that he was not proud of, when he’d sat at his father’s side and listened to him fight for his breath, Yaqub had thought of picking up a pillow and pressing it down over Sabah’s face. He wouldn’t have had to hold it there long, just until his father slid from this life into the paradise that Yaqub was certain awaited him. The temptation was great. In God’s grace, in
Firdaws
, Sabah would once more be whole, and he would live among
virgins in a house made of gold and silver and pearls. It would be a magnificent dwelling.